


promises to keep

by figure8



Series: all the devils are here [1]
Category: K-pop, SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, Families of Choice, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Monster Hunters, Road Trips, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-12-01 22:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20926460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: “It’s a sign of love, you know,” Soonyoung says, gaze still very intent.“What is?” Junhui asks.“Teaching someone how not to need you anymore.”--Junhui kills monsters and learns how to live with loss.





	promises to keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agonies (Hyb)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyb/gifts).

> this story is incredibly important to me. i spat it out in five days in a feverish state; it developed a life of its own and _had_ to be told. i'm proud of the finished product—somehow, for once, it comes very close to the image i had of it before i set out to actually write it.  
i know the tags are scary, but i ask you to trust me on this one. it's a rocky road, but i've never really written a story that wasn't, at its heart, about hope, and this is no exception. please hang on for the ride. 
> 
> thank you first of all to the jukebox mods for 1) running this!!! 2) allowing me to change my mind eleven hundred times about what i was going to write. ❤️  
i wrote for _lay me down_, which is one of my favorite sam smith songs to begin with, but i absolutely adore the hozier cover. it's a song about coping with loss, and the original is a lament, musically; but the cover is more cheerful, almost deceptively so. there's something particularly heartbreaking about someone singing the line _i don't want to be here / if i can't be with you_ in the major key. 
> 
> this was written for hyb, who knows exactly how to get me and deserves to be gotten in return. thank you for your friendship—i cherish it. 
> 
> R, you have permanent residency in my heart. every love story i write is for and about you. 
> 
> and most importantly, as always, thank YOU, dear reader, for giving my words a chance. hope you enjoy! 
> 
> for those of you who like reading with a soundtrack, here is a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/thedeadrobin/playlist/1XZPDM41AWMIm98DUyBaxP?si=INjzfgWSSxuNTzqUTBjg6w)!

_ The woods are lovely, dark and deep, _

_ But I have promises to keep, _

_ And miles to go before I sleep, _

_ And miles to go before I sleep. _

_ — _Robert Frost 

  


Junhui was fifteen years old when he killed his first monster. Hands plunged inside the ribcage of a nine-tailed fox, blood and gore up to his elbows—he mainly remembers how the creature’s heart had felt cradled in his palm; hot and still pulsing even outside its body, a life of its own. Behind him, eyes hungry for knowledge, Minghao hadn’t been able to contain a soft gasp when Junhui had turned around, red all over him, organ in hand. 

He’s eighteen and it’s habit now. Junhui doesn’t even think about it anymore, movements so practiced they are choreography, grip firm on his dagger. He cuts through the kumiho’s chest, blade slicing through fur then flesh. The fox screeches, but Junhui’s runes keep it pinned to the ground. When he turns around Minghao is already waiting for him, box open and ready. Junhui deposits the hot heart in it with care. The fox stops jerking after a few minutes, dry and lifeless. Minghao slams the box shut. 

“That’s three in two weeks,” he says, frown etched on his face. “I don’t like that at all.” 

Junhui’s chest is still rising and falling frantically, his body flooded with adrenaline, just now catching up with the situation—the danger is over, you can relax now. When he speaks he sounds like he just finished running a marathon. 

“You worry too much. It’s the season.” Minghao doesn’t look convinced. “Listen,” Junhui sighs. “I’ll call Soonyoung.”

“I didn’t say we needed help,” Minghao says, but his shoulders are already less tense. Junhui knows him too well. Hunters work best in pairs, and the best pairs are those that can read each other in seconds, know where their partner is at any given moment, thoughts anticipated. Twins, usually. Lovers, too. Junhui and Minghao are neither. 

Kwon Soonyoung doesn’t have a partner, he has a family. He’s legacy, comes from an old, long line of hunters. When Junhui first met him, he used to work with his sister, but she has gotten married since then and travels with her husband instead. Last time Junhui saw Soonyoung he was lending his father a hand with a ghoul, looking almost comical in his too-big leather jacket with mud up to his knees. 

He does not look ridiculous now, leaning against the hood of Junhui’s car, black hair falling neatly right above his eyes, black combat boots and tight stonewashed jeans and the same battered leather jacket, except it now falls correctly on his shoulders.

“You came,” Junhui smiles. 

“Nothing better to do,” Soonyoung shrugs, but he’s grinning wide. 

There is a tiny restaurant two blocks from the motel Junhui and Minghao are staying at that serves decent food and offers free refills on tea and coffee. Soonyoung gratefully accepts the warm cup of hyeonmi-cha Junhui orders for him, eyes widening hungrily when two portions of bibimbap arrive in front of them. 

“I’ve been on the road all morning,” he explains before digging in. 

“Thank you for coming, really,” Junhui says. “Minghao was getting antsy.”

“How is he?” Soonyoung asks, mouth full. “Last time I was here he didn’t know how to draw a full circle.” 

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Junhui chuckles. “He’s good. I mean, he’s doing good, but he’s also _ good. _I trust his instinct.” 

Soonyoung drains the liquid from his mug. “And his instinct says there’s too many foxes around here?”

“No,” Junhui says, “Common sense says that. I killed three in ten days, I don’t need Minghao to tell me that’s too many.” 

“But it’s Minghao that made you call me,” Soonyoung tilts his head to the side. 

“He looked uneasy,” Junhui doesn’t know how to put it into words. He doesn’t have to—Soonyoung understands. 

“My father says that when you spend enough time hunting with someone, the magic binds you.” He puts down his chopsticks, his bowl empty. Junhui’s is still half full. 

“When Minghao says trouble is coming, trouble usually does find us.”

He doesn’t want to think about what Soonyoung just said, the possibility that he and Minghao share more than just time-forged knowledge of each other, something that runs deeper. You can teach someone how to read another human being. 

“If you were allowed time off,” he changes the subject instead, “I suppose that means your clan deems the threat at least semi-serious.”

“Nah,” Soonyoung laughs softly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, dad definitely thinks three kumihos roaming around is three too many, but I’m also ninety percent sure he sent me here because he was tired of me. Since noona left, I’ve been bored as shit, man.” 

“You don’t get monsters up north?” Junhui teases. 

“We get plenty,” Soonyoung shakes his head. “But my cousins have it covered, and I’m the only one without someone to hunt with, so my parents only ever really send me out if extra manpower is needed.” 

“Like here,” Junhui nods. 

“Yeah,” Soonyoung’s mouth quirks into a small smile. “So, thanks for getting me out. I was developing cabin fever.” 

It’s easier with three people. It’s harder with three people too. Junhui trained with Soonyoung, and they fall back into old, familiar patterns. Minghao learned all his tricks with Junhui, one step removed, and he stutters and stumbles trying to accommodate a third component into the equation. For a few days there is also the question of if Minghao will _ like _ Soonyoung. Minghao doesn’t get along with most people; he usually leaves the _ people _ part of _ saving people _ to Junhui. He’s polite to a fault, always nice to service workers, but never friendly to strangers. Soonyoung isn’t exactly a _ stranger, _ but he’s an outsider to their small and carefully constructed bubble, and as much as Minghao seemed relieved to hear Junhui call in outside help, Junhui was worried about _ cohabitation. _

He should have expected Soonyoung to break the pattern, really. There is something easy about him, not exactly mellow but _ gentle, _ open. It contrasts wildly with his talent as a hunter, how efficiently he wields his blade. Minghao immediately respects him, Junhui can tell, and after 48 hours he _ likes him, _ too. It’s reciprocal, but _ that _does not come as a surprise. Minghao, for all his prickliness, is very easy to love. It’s not just his face, but the face does help. He’s in that awkward stage of growth where he looks like an overgrown baby, limbs too long for his body and round cheeks. Junhui adores him, but Junhui has known him his entire life. It’s always reassuring to know others share that opinion. 

They follow a trail one town over, in Junhui’s car because it feels redundant to take Soonyoung’s too when they can all fit in one. Minghao glares at Soonyoung when the older boy climbs in on Junhui’s right, but he silently accepts that age hierarchy prevails and goes to sit in the back in only minimal fury. They find more nine-tailed foxes in the forest, but these are small, and they don’t look like they are strong enough to shapeshift, so Junhui takes the executive decision to let them live. Soonyoung looks like he wants to disagree, but he stays quiet, lets Junhui lead. Junhui is older, but only by five days, and Soonyoung is his senior anyway, both in years active in the field and because he’s of the Kwon clan when Junhui has no blood ties to any old hunting family. 

He asks Soonyoung about it, but later, in the dark, Minghao asleep. 

“You wanted to kill them.”

“It’s safer that way. We’re not in the mercy business, Jun.” 

“But you didn’t say anything,” Junhui continues. “You wanted to, but you let me make the final call.”

“It’s your territory,” Soonyoung says. He’s sitting on his bed, lotus position. They didn’t want to pay for two rooms, so Minghao and Junhui are sharing a bed. Minghao is snoring lightly under the covers, curled up in fetal position. Under the moonlight filtering in through the half-closed blinds, Junhui can make out the lines of Soonyoung’s profile as he whispers. “I’m just here to help. When you visit us in Hanam, then I’ll boss you around.” 

“I don’t know everything,” Junhui shakes his head. “You help me with insight too.”

Soonyoung laughs lightly in the night. “Okay, then. I think we should go back and kill them. I think there’s something bigger in the forest, too.” 

Minghao kills his first kumiho in that forest, a perfect circle of runes around him, blood all over his clothes. It’s a small fox, its heart a tiny thing in Minghao’s hands. Soonyoung is the one who takes it, stores it safely in a black wooden box that was most likely carved by his sister. The engraving is beautiful, gold poured where the wood was cut, the runes shining even here in the fog. In the distance, there is a howl. 

“_Ha,_” Soonyoung’s lips stretch into a wide, wolfish grin. “There you are.”

Minghao looks vaguely panicked. “What was _ that? _I’ve never heard something like this before.”

“A mother,” Junhui tells him. He chews on the inside of his cheek nervously. He doesn’t like the idea of Minghao being present for this. He turns to Soonyoung. “That’s why you wanted to kill the babies. Not because they’re dangerous, they’re not, but because—”

Soonyoung has at least the decency of looking sheepish. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure, but we had to at least try.”

Junhui takes out his dagger. “We’ll discuss this later. Jesus, _ my territory _my ass. You couldn’t warn me?”

Soonyoung chuckles. “I thought you were going to yell at me _ later_.”

He doesn’t seem afraid in the slightest. _ Fucking clan kids, _ Junhui mutters to himself. Always too sure of themselves. 

“Minghao, draw me a shield,” he orders. Minghao obeys immediately, traces a scintillating oval with his fingertip in the air around the three of them. 

It’s the largest kumiho Junhui has ever seen. She towers over them, glorious in her anger, her nine tails raised like snakes. She can’t cross over to them, Minghao’s protective spell solid, but that also means _ they _can’t make it to the other side without losing cover. When she growls, muzzle pursed, she shows two impressive rows of teeth, sharp and glowing. 

“What the fuck are we supposed to do?” Junhui turns to Soonyoung, who somehow still looks infuriating calm.

“Watch and learn,” Soonyoung smirks, before drawing a complex rune on the inside of his own wrist. Junhui has seen that symbol before, but only in books. 

The spell clings to Soonyoung like a translucent cloak. He walks out from under Minghao’s shield, and the fox raises her leg immediately, claws out, and brutally brings it back down. 

“Soonyoung!” Junhui screams, but Soonyoung ducks, fast as lightning, and suddenly he’s nose to nose with the monster, and all he has to do is plunge his knife into her soft belly. 

She screeches with pain, one tail coming down on Soonyoung like a mortar, sending him flying away. There is a gaping cut on her abdomen. Soonyoung falls flat on his ass. Junhui takes a step forward.

“Jun,” Minghao grunts through gritted teeth, muscles straining from holding a protective spell over two people for so long. 

“I’m fine!” Soonyoung shouts. He pushes himself up. He looks unscathed, but the tails of a kumiho have fur that cuts like glass. 

Soonyoung dives again, aiming for the wound he left. It takes him two attempts, but he finally manages to stab the fox again, and this time she stumbles, hurt and destabilized. Soonyoung digs his entire arm inside her ribcage, up to the shoulder. She thrashes furiously, wailing, but he holds her down while he locates her heart, and then as if someone had cut her strings, she stops moving, head lolling to the side. When Soonyoung tears out her heart and lets her go, her body just crumbles with a dull thud.

Minghao falls to his knees, exhausted, letting go of the spell. 

“Holy shit,” he pants. 

“Junhui,” Soonyoung calls, “My box.”

Junhui rushes to his side, wooden box open. Soonyoung very carefully sets the heart inside on the velvety cushion. When he closes the lid, Junhui lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

Soonyoung beams up at him. “Pretty cool, right?”

“I’m going to _ kill you,_” Junhui hisses, punching him in the shoulder. 

“Ouch, what the fuck,” Soonyoung blinks. “I just killed that giant fucker for you!”

Junhui hits him again, ignores his outrage. “For me? You did that for me? You put us all in danger, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me your plan just so you could look cool. Would you ever fucking do that to your sister?”

“I can’t impress my sister with moves she taught me herself,” Soonyoung answers, which wins him another blow. “What the fuck,” he glares, “Junhui, stop _ hitting _me.”

“I want to murder you,” Junhui sneers, “You’re getting off easy.”

Soonyoung grimaces. “Look, I knew I could kill her, no one was actually in danger.” He rubs the back of his neck, teeth sunk in his bottom lip. “Junhui, please, I get why you’re mad, but I wouldn’t—”

“You can pull that shit when it’s just you and me,” Junhui cuts him off, voice low so that Minghao won’t hear him. “But that’s my little brother. He’s my family. If anything happens to him—”

“I got it,” Soonyoung raises his hands palms open. “I got it, I’m sorry. Never again, I promise.” 

Junhui’s anger deflates like a sad balloon, all the adrenaline leaving his body at once. He looks at Soonyoung, dirt and leaves all over his clothes, cheeks red, hair wild. 

“That _ was _kind of cool,” Junhui admits after a beat. Soonyoung gives him a tentative smile. 

“That was fucking _ insane, _ you mean,” Minghao chirps in from behind Junhui, having finally garnered the strength to get up. “Hyung,” he turns to Soonyoung, so hopeful he looks even younger, “You have to teach me.” 

_ But you’re mine to teach, _ Junhui thinks for a split second, the thought ugly and possessive. He built Minghao from the ground up, raw magical potential turned to _ practice. _

“That’s what I’m here for,” Soonyoung grins. “Come on, let’s get out of here, I’m starving.” 

He does end up teaching Minghao. They sit in the center of their hotel room, face to face, Soonyoung in jeans and a black tank top, Minghao wearing pajamas. 

“Okay,” Minghao say, brows furrowed in concentration, “Show me your rune again.” 

“It’s not _ my _ rune,” Soonyoung chuckles fondly. “Runes don’t belong to people.” 

“Whatever,” Minghao says, impatient, “Show me _ the _rune.”

“You have an innate talent for drawing,” Soonyoung tells him. “But you need to respect magic. You need to treat it like a friend.”

“It’s a tool,” Minghao frowns. 

“It’s a power,” Soonyoung counters, “And it’s alive.” He turns his arm around, places two fingers on his forearm. His fingertips are glowing. “If you don’t speak to your magic, you’ll be stuck drawing basic spells for the rest of your life.”

He traces a rune on the delicate skin of the inside of his arm, but it isn’t the one he used earlier in the forest. Instead it turns his hand black, nails elongated like claws. Minghao recoils instinctively. 

“What the _ hell._”

“You can do so much,” Soonyoung wipes the rune off, his hand returning to normal. “You have the potential, you just need someone to show you how.”

From where he’s leaning against the wall, Junhui scoffs. “And that someone is you, I suppose?”

“Could be,” Soonyoung shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be. You should leave him with us for a few months, just like you did. Just for training.”

“And travel alone? No thank you.” 

“Please, _ gē,_” Minghao turns to him. “I want to learn.” 

Junhui considers it. Minghao is looking at him with big pleading eyes. 

It would make sense, from a practical point of view. Soonyoung is right, Minghao does show a propensity for complex spells, holds his magic with practiced ease. With the right teacher he could become impressive, but he doesn’t _ need _to; he and Junhui are small town hunters, unaffiliated, never take jobs complicated enough to warrant that level of skill. A stronger grip on his magic will allow Minghao to set traps for larger, more dangerous beasts, which would mean a lot more money, but also much higher stakes. Junhui has very good reasons to avoid that, and so does Minghao. 

“Soonyoung, I need to talk to you outside,” he says instead of answering Minghao’s supplication.

Soonyoung wipes his hands on his jeans, gets up and follows Junhui to the balcony. Once the sliding door is closed behind them, Junhui sighs, threads a hand through his hair. 

“Don’t dangle an apprenticeship in front of him like that, that’s not fair.” 

Soonyoung simply stares for a minute, quiet. “You know what’s not fair? You limiting his opportunities because you’re scared.”

“I’m right to be,” Junhui hisses, low. “You know how his parents died.” 

“It was an accident, Jun,” Soonyoung says slowly. “Accidents happen. It fucking sucks, but it’s life. It’s the job.”

“No,” Junhui shakes his head. “It was preventable. Spells that strong attract evil.”

“So you want him to draw shaky bullshit intro level spells for the rest of his life, objectively putting himself in more danger every time he goes out there?”

Junhui raises an eyebrow. “I’m more skilled with a dagger than half your family combined, Kwon Soonyoung. That’s why your father took me under his wing. Nothing’s going to happen to Minghao as long as he has me.” 

Soonyoung shoots back immediately. “What happens when he doesn’t have you? What happens if you’re hurt, or God forbid, you falter for a second because you’re a fucking human being?”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to him,” Junhui repeats, harsher. “I know your clan collects talent, but Minghao is _ my _family.” 

Soonyoung puts his hand on Junhui’s arm. Junhui tries to shake him off, but Soonyoung holds on, fingers a bracelet around his wrist. 

“Jun,” he says softly, “No one is going to take him from you.” 

“I don’t think that,” Junhui protests, but he does, he does think that. It’s been him and Minghao for as long as he can remember, the only constant, everyone else fleeting temporalities. Two orphans left to their own devices with nothing but an affinity for magic and a thirst for vengeance. 

“Let me teach him,” Soonyoung pleads, his tone gentler now. “I can stay here a few more weeks, show him the ropes. Nothing official, and nothing too wild. See? Compromise, Jun-ah. I can do that.”

It’s a tempting offer, a generous one. Soonyoung is a good person, when he remembers to stop being an idiot. In a few weeks Minghao won’t learn anything he wouldn’t be able to figure out himself anyway, but he _ will _save a considerable amount of time. 

“Not more than a month,” Junhui sets the rules. “And you tell your father there’s more clean up to do and that’s why you’re staying. I don’t want Minghao on his radar.” 

“You’d think _ you _were doing me a favor,” Soonyoung mutters. 

“I am,” Junhui says pointedly. “I’m allowing you to practice your spellcasting with the last remaining member of one of the most powerful clans in China. _ And _ I’m giving you an excuse to keep you away from home a little longer, which I _ know _you dread returning to.”

“Touché,” Soonyoung admits. 

When they were still kids, Junhui training under Soonyoung’s father, they used to sneak out in the night sometimes, most often just for the sake of it. Soonyoung would cast a simple invisibility spell, barely strong enough to blur them slightly to the naked eye, but it was much better than anything Junhui could draw at the time, and he was consequently thoroughly impressed every time. 

Soonyoung is smiling at him a little like he used to back then. Like he knows he just _ got _Junhui, and with a cheap trick at that. Junhui had never really minded losing to him. He lets himself be gotten. 

“One month,” Soonyoung says, extending his hand. Junhui shakes it. 

“One month.” 

One month is a long time to live out of a suitcase and sharing a space with two other boys, so Soonyoung gets his own room. For the first time in years, Junhui and Minghao get a set routine: early in the morning Soonyoung runs, but after that it’s class time for Minghao. In the afternoon they hunt, although since they got rid of the adult kumiho there isn’t much to track in the region. They catch a small chimera, a snake with wings and a beak, but it is so inoffensive even Soonyoung just laughs at it before telling Minghao to release it back into the river. 

Minghao improves visibly with each passing day. It’s unsurprising—magic isn’t simply genetic, but genes do play a huge role in determining magical abilities, and hard work is the other side of the coin; Minghao is gifted in both. Junhui watches him learn with a heavy heart, affection blooming like a cherry tree, its branches weighed down by fear. Collecting fox hearts is not a grandiose way to live, but it is a safe one; and Junhui can see already that very soon, Minghao will hunger for more. 

In the evenings Soonyoung always wants to go out. Junhui follows him everywhere, blows his monthly beer budget in a week. They tour every bar the town has to offer, impress girls with their dart throwing skills and, on one notable occasion, pathetically lose a game of pool. It’s fun in a way Junhui forgot life could be, carefree and mellow. He could get used to this, except he won’t, because soon Soonyoung will go back to Gyeonggi, and Junhui will go back to driving around the coast with Minghao riding shotgun, looking for odd jobs hunters in clans find below them. 

When they were thirteen years old Junhui woke up one morning from a terrible dream, but not the usual kind. Less death, more—

He’s having these dreams again, and the only common denominator is Soonyoung, and that means Junhui should back off. Slowly, gently, non-suspiciously, but he should take his distance. 

The thing is, Soonyoung is going to leave anyway, and in such little time that it’s not worth investing effort in cutting ties, Junhui reasons with himself. That will happen organically anyway, and Junhui will return to his old life, his old habits, his old nightmares. He longs, strangely, for sleepless nights filled with visions of blood and screams—anything that isn’t the white column of Soonyoung’s throat, the trembling line of his spine as Junhui bends down to retrace it with his tongue, Soonyoung’s hands twisting around cheap motel bed sheets—

Four weeks gather quickly, like pebbles on the shore. On his last evening with them Soonyoung asks Minghao to demonstrate, proudly. Minghao draws sigils in the air, his entire body vibrating with barely contained power. Junhui watches him, love a whole world on his shoulders. Protective spells, tracking spells, even a night vision spell, to Soonyoung’s great glee. 

“I’m impressed,” Junhui whistles, and Minghao beams up at him, so much like a child in that moment Junhui’s heart shatters in a myriad of tiny pieces. 

Soonyoung’s smile is almost as wide. “That’s all I ever aim to do,” he chuckles, but there is a slight pink tinge to his cheekbones.

Junhui snorts. “Impressing me?”

“You’re a harsh critic,” Soonyoung shrugs. “Your approval actually means something.” 

Lianas grow inside Junhui’s ribcage, Soonyoung’s words like water, encircling his heart. 

“I don’t mean to be,” Junhui tells him softly, later. “Harsh, I mean,” he clarifies when Soonyoung just blinks at him in confusion. “I don’t mean to be harsh with you.”

“You were trained by my father,” Soonyoung laughs humorlessly. “Of course you’re harsh.” 

“I’m trying to be kinder,” Junhui insists. 

Soonyoung grabs him by the shoulders, looks him in the eye. “You’re already kind, Wen Junhui.”

It would be the easiest thing in the world, to lean in and kiss him.

It would be the easiest thing in the world, to lose him forever. 

Junhui wags his head like a wet dog trying to get dry, shakes the want away like droplets. Soonyoung releases him but doesn’t move away. 

“Thank you,” Junhui says finally, mainly to fill the silence, but also because he means it. “For teaching him. You’re right, I’m not always—I’m not always gonna be there.” 

Soonyoung’s irises sparkle. “If there’s one thing this godforsaken family has taught me, it’s to treasure my independence. It’s a sign of love, you know,” he says, gaze still very intent. 

“What is?” Junhui asks. 

“Teaching someone how not to need you anymore.”

It’s a sign of trust, too, Junhui thinks. What a gamble, to give someone the key and pray they won’t open the door. 

⚔️ ⚔️ ⚔️

Minghao’s forearms are alight with runes. Hidden in the trees by the river bank, Junhui stands completely still, watches him walk into the water, his clothes dry even as he reaches deep enough to be covered up to his waist. He waits there, palm raised barely above the surface, a circle glowing. Slowly, a miniature storm rises under his hand, liquid tourbillion.

The river snake he pulls from the water is large, slimy. It does not look happy to be disturbed at all, jaws clicking a breath away from Minghao’s face, angry. Its body is covered in scintillating scales, razor sharp: it would be impossible to grip bare-handed, but Minghao holds it up with magic, no touching. 

Junhui throws his dagger. 

It flies in a straight line, _ woosh, _perfect trajectory, goes to lodge itself in the beast’s neck. The river snake jerks, hissing, and then it crumbles, drops into the water with a loud splash. 

Minghao turns to him, grin so big it’s eating half his face. Junhui steps out of his hiding place. 

“Nice shot.”

Junhui extends his hand, and his dagger flies back. It fits comfortably in his palm, a familiar weight. 

“Thanks,” he wipes the blade on his jeans before sheathing it. “Get the eyes.”

River snake eyes resell for quite a lot on the black market, and so does their venom, if one knows how to extract it. Minghao grabs the dead monster’s head, forces its mouth open. 

“Give me a vial first,” he asks. Junhui hands one to him. He presses his thumb inside, on the palate, right behind the fangs. Venom trickles directly into the small bottle, light yellow, fresh. “Here,” he gives the vial back to Junhui. “Someone took its right eye while it was alive,” he frowns, turning the face for Junhui to see, “Look.” 

There’s a gaping hole where one eye should be. 

“What the hell,” Junhui mutters. “What kind of sick fuck would just—scoop it—and—”

Minghao looks more fascinated than put out. “That would take a _ lot _of skill. An immobilization spell, really strong.” He takes out his own dagger to carve out the left eye. “Box?”

Junhui opens it on autopilot, still morbidly fixated on the missing eye. 

“I feel kind of disappointed now,” Minghao says when they’re back to their car, “Like, that was an easy kill.”

“It still had all its teeth,” Junhui chuckles dryly. “Trust me, this was not _ easy _by far.”

They drive back to the city, make a beeline for the small pub Junhui spotted the second they arrived. Minghao is old enough to drink now, and he holds his liquor much better than Junhui, to his greatest delight. Junhui locks their bounty in the trunk, draws a quick safety spell around the car. When he enters the pub Minghao is already at the bar, two bottles of soju on the counter. 

In a year he has lost all remaining baby fat, the long-limb awkwardness too. He’s all lean gracefulness now, chiseled face and sharp eyes. He’s learned to smile, too. Girls fall for it like ants with honey. On a night like this it takes Minghao an hour tops to find himself surrounded with young women he feeds slightly exaggerated hunting stories to, their manicured hands on his bicep, on his thigh. Tonight is no exception. Junhui looks away. 

He’s not bitter, he tells himself, downing the bottom of his second bottle of soju. He’s not _ lonely. _He gets laid from time to time, when he manages to slip away, usually when Minghao himself is otherwise occupied. Junhui doesn’t get the luxury of soft sheets and hotel rooms; for him it is dark alleys, and bathroom floors, and no names exchanged. 

“_Gē,_” Minghao comes up to him, like clockwork, “Can I have the room for a few hours?”

He flashes Junhui his most angelic smile, the heathen. 

“Sure,” Junhui motions. He’s tired, would rather head directly for his mattress, but Minghao is using the big puppy eyes trick again. “Don’t be too long.”

“I’ll try,” Minghao cackles. Junhui rolls his eyes. 

He ends up ordering more soju, even if he’s already well on his way to _ smashed. _There’s nothing better to do. 

A man slides into the seat next to him just as Junhui is considering literally sleeping on the counter. Cheek pressed to the varnished wood, Junhui turns to look at him. 

He’s attractive in a very masculine way, wide shoulders and defined jawline, but he has gentle eyes. It’s the eyes that make Junhui start a conversation. The man looks faintly amused by his drunken state, plays along. Junhui isn’t stupid, he knows what he looks like, and he’s particularly aware of the image he must present right at this moment, disheveled and loose, cheeks red. 

“Name’s Kim Mingyu,” the stranger introduces himself.

“Jun,” Junhui offers back. The base of his spine is tingling, embers incandescent, the beginning of a fire. “You from around here, Mingyu?” he drawls. 

“Just driving through,” Mingyu says. “I’m staying at the motel down the street.”

Junhui looks at him again, really looking this time. He takes in the khaki trench-coat, the polished black shoes. 

“You’re a cop,” he realizes. 

“Not tonight,” Mingyu says. 

He fucks Junhui in his hotel bed, springs whining loudly with every thrust, pastel pink sheets smelling lightly of lavender. He’s nice about it, hands delicate on Junhui’s hips, something tender about him. Junhui usually likes it rougher, but this is good too. They fall asleep entangled with each other despite the heat, bodies sticky with sweat and come. 

In the morning Junhui uses his shower and kisses him goodbye before putting on his worn clothes to walk back to where Minghao and him are staying. Minghao is awake and doing push-ups when Junhui unlocks the door. 

“You slept outside,” he squints at Junhui. 

“You’re not the only one who can get lucky,” Junhui snorts. 

“Was she hot?” Minghao asks, laughing. “I never see you flirt with anyone, what even is your type?”

Junhui bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste blood. 

“Dark hair,” he says finally. “Tall, I suppose. A good smile.” He doesn’t think of Soonyoung, of the way his eyes slant when he’s happy, of his laughter turning breathless. “Kind eyes. That’s my type.” 

They cross paths with other hunters, sometimes. Traveling pairs, sometimes tracking the same monster as them. There is a code, to these things. Sometimes they’ll join forces, especially for bigger monsters, although Junhui doesn’t like the uncertainty that comes with working with strangers. Too many variables, too many unknown components. 

Rarely, they’ll come across a clan. They fold then, leave the creatures to them. Junhui hasn’t been in Kwon territory since he finished his training, but Busan belongs to the Choi family, and on sparse occasions the younger ones travel outside the city, chasing monsters to uninhabited areas instead of risking a ritual in the middle of a populated urban center. 

That’s how Junhui finds himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun, his arm sinking into the belly of a small dead ghoul. 

“This one’s mine,” the young man on the other side of the rifle tells him. 

Junhui looks down to where it’s definitely _ his _hand foraging through intestines. He scrunches his nose. “Nope, pretty sure I killed that one.”

“I’ve been tracking that motherfucker for _ miles, _it’s mine,” the boy insists. 

“Did you shoot it?” Junhui arches his eyebrow. The boy stays silent. “Yeah, didn’t think so. _ I _wrestled it down and cut it open. It’s mine.” 

The other hunter lowers his gun, although he still looks very disgruntled. Junhui feels the shape of something round and hard under his fingers. _ Bingo. _He finally removes his arm from the mess of guts and gore, brandishing a golden ring. 

“Ha,” he grins triumphantly, “I _ knew _it had swallowed something good. Sorry,” he turns his attention back to the boy, wipes his bloody hand on his thigh, and tucks the ring in the pocket of his jacket, “That was awfully rude of me. I’m Wen Junhui. I’d shake your hand, but—”

“That’s fine,” the hunter hurries to stop him. “Oh,” he furrows his brows, flicker of recognition flashing through his irises, “You’re Soonyoung’s friend.”

Junhui perks up at that. “You know Soonyoung?”

“Our parents are friends,” he explains. “I’m Choi Seungcheol.” 

Ah, the first son of another clean leader, Junhui nods. Of course he and Soonyoung know each other. 

“I trained under his father,” Junhui says. Seungcheol smiles. 

“God, that’s why you were so prissy about my gun.”

“Sorry,” Junhui grimaces. He fishes a matchbox from his back pocket, lights the ghoul’s corpse on fire. Those things _ smell. _“I’m old school.”

“Blades are for personal business,” Seungcheol laughs lightly. “This is work. Firearms are much cleaner, I don’t care what the Kwons say. Killing from afar is _ smart, _it doesn’t make anyone a coward.”

_ Every kill is personal for me, _ Junhui thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut. “I like my dagger,” he says instead. “And I’m good at knife throwing, so you know. I can also do _ from afar._”

Seungcheol blinks. “You’re exactly as he described you.”

“He talks about me?” He hates how horribly hopeful his voice sounds, so fucking transparent. If Seungcheol notices he keeps his judgement to himself. 

“Best blade wielder he’s ever met,” Seungcheol quotes. “And a mouth to match that.”

Junhui feels his chest constrict. 

“I need to get back to my partner,” he says apologetically. “Thanks for not, you know. Shooting me.”

“The Xu boy, right?” Seungcheol asks. Junhui immediately tenses. 

“Yes,” he says very slowly. “You know about that?”

“Everyone knows about that, Wen. When an entire clan is wiped off the face of the earth, we notice. We keep tabs.” 

A shiver runs down Junhui’s spine. “Why did no one—,” he starts, then stops himself when his words come out hoarse. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “Why did no one come for him, then? All this talk about unity and solidarity and you all left him to rot in an orphanage?”

“I was two,” Seungcheol says, “So first of all, _ I _didn’t do anything. But someone did come for him, Wen. Why would my clan step in, or any other clan, when we knew he was cared for already?”

Junhui’s vision is blurry, his right hand shaking slightly. _ Fuck, _ he admonishes himself, _ don’t fucking cry in front of him. _

“Because he deserved better,” he shakes his head, wills the tears away. “He deserved—”

Seungcheol doesn’t let him finish. “To be raised in magic? So the spirit that took his parents could find him within days? Your parents loved him. Isn’t that what he _ deserved _? A family?”

It’s a terrible conversation to be having in the middle of the woods with ghoul entrails still on his clothes, Junhui thinks absently. 

“He deserved not to have to stumble through all this blindsided,” Junhui says, final. “My parents didn’t know how to handle a kid with that kind of power. Sorry,” he sighs, cards a hand through his hair, “I know this isn’t your fault.”

“No, I get it,” Seungcheol shakes his head, readjusting the strap of his rifle. “But for what it’s worth, you were watched closely. The community didn’t abandon you. We have each other’s backs, no matter what.” 

_ Where were you the night my parents died? _

Junhui swallows that back down.

Seungcheol insists on walking him back to his car. “Say hi to Xu Minghao from me,” he smiles as Junhui slams the door shut.

“He doesn’t know you,” Junhui huffs. 

“In another life we are childhood friends,” Seungcheol says, leaning against the car. “Just tell him I said hi, and next time you’re in the city, don’t be a stranger. Drop by.” 

Junhui turns Seungcheol’s words around in his head as he drives back to the tiny apartment they rent in Gimhae. 

When they were children, Minghao barely five years old, Junhui six, Minghao started showing clear signs of strong magic abilities—toys levitating, lights flickering, wind flowing inside the house with all the windows closed. Minghao’s presence attracted all sorts of creatures, too. Harmless spirits, baby chimeras, three-legged crows. Junhui’s parents found him in the garden once, petting a very small river snake, had the fright of their life. It became apparent very soon, that Minghao would follow in his parents’ footsteps, hunter blood inescapable. 

Junhui went to see a psychic once, more curiosity than need. She read his palm, smooth fingers running over already scarred skin. 

“Your life line and your heart line are crossing,” she had said, brows furrowed. “Your destiny follows one man.” 

At age ten, his parents gone up in a crash of smoke and metal, Junhui had found himself in the Kwon household, Minghao’s fate in the balance and no bargaining tool in his quiver. _ I’m good with knives, _ he had told Soonyoung’s father. _ Teach me. _

He doesn’t tell Minghao about Choi Seungcheol. The next time they drive through Busan, he doesn’t stop. 

⚔️ ⚔️ ⚔️

As winter shows its nose and snow falls over Korea like a heavy white coat, Junhui and Minghao board a ferry to Jeju. There were multiple gwisin sightings over the past few weeks, in an old high school on the island, and the school principal promises good money to whoever manages to banish the ghosts. 

Restless spirits like that are more inconvenient than they are dangerous: the main issue that comes with a gwisin infestation is that they are terrifying, eerie creatures of the night. Junhui’s rune work has always been too rudimentary to take on ghosts, but Minghao masters multiple banishment sigils now, so they accept the job. 

The building dates back to the war years. It’s lived-in but solid, blocks of concrete on concrete, sun-washed pastel paint on the walls. They check it out in the daylight, familiarize themselves with their surroundings, and then they wait. 

At nightfall, the ghosts don’t come out immediately. The first hour passes painfully slow, minutes elapsing drop by drop. Junhui perches himself up on a teacher’s desk. swings his legs to the rhythm of a silent song. Minghao chooses to roam the halls, armed with a flashlight, mostly to have something to do. 

Junhui doesn’t realize something in the atmosphere has shifted before he starts sneezing. _ Change in temperature, _he ticks off the list mentally, jumping back to his feet. 

“Minghao,” he calls. 

Minghao appears at the door of the classroom. In the distance, something falls to the ground in a dull thud. 

“Objects clattering,” Junhui says out loud this time. 

Minghao raises two fingers, draws a bright circle. “Come out,” he mutters. “Come on.”

The first gwisin that materializes takes the vague shape of a young woman, white dress floating above ground, long wet black hair. Minghao traces symbols in the air, and she drifts towards him, her almost-face contorted in a grimace. She gets swallowed by the circle, whirlwind, one second there and the next gone. Minghao closes the circle, trapping the ghost on the other side. 

Junhui feels useless, standing in the middle of the room dagger out, waiting for a threat that doesn’t fear his blade. 

“There’s another one coming,” Minghao tells him. “I can sense it.”

He catches that one easily too, sigils burning in the air. The third gwisin is harder to get, fast. Minghao has to draw two portals, trap the ghost between them with nowhere to go. He looks a little pale after that, a little haggard.

“That’s enough for tonight,” Junhui orders. “We’ll finish tomorrow.” 

“She’s already here,” Minghao shakes his head, “We have to catch this one.” 

“I don’t like you exhausting yourself,” Junhui insists. “Let’s leave, Minghao, it’s not like the ghosts have anywhere else to go.”

“Okay,” Minghao pouts, clearly disappointed. 

“Brat,” Junhui smiles at him fondly, pulls him closer by the arm before mussing his hair. “You don’t always have to be the best, you know. That was impressive for a first try.”

Minghao doesn’t look convinced, but he lets himself be dragged outside. 

They’ve almost made it to the car when he freezes, tensing visibly. 

Junhui turns to him, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Something’s coming,” Minghao says, and his eyes are wide, scared. 

It takes a lot to scare Minghao. Junhui’s stomach drops. 

“What’s coming, Hao? How do you know?”

“I can _ feel _it,” Minghao says. “Junhui, you need to leave.”

Junhui blinks. “What? No, I’m not leaving you here. Come on, get in the car.”

“Junhui,” Minghao repeats, “You need to go now.”

Above them, thunder cracks, and the sky opens in two. Rain pours down, torrential, sudden, buckets and buckets of water drenching both of them instantly. 

“Hao,” Junhui starts, but he forgets to finish his sentence as the wind picks up, growing tornado, leaves and garbage and dirt swirling upwards. The road signs start shaking violently. 

Minghao grabs his hand, turns his forearm around. Two fingers on the inside of Junhui’s wrist, he traces a familiar symbol. Soonyoung’s protection rune. 

It burns on Junhui’s skin, the way magic that isn’t his always does. He reaches for his dagger, raises his guard. 

Minghao draws a circle in front of him, fingers working quick, runes bright and strong in the rain. Junhui recognizes most of them—warding spells, reversal spells, defensive magic. 

The spirit that materializes in front of them looks nothing like a gwisin. It’s tall, much taller than a human or a ghost. It’s barely anthropomorphic, too—a blurry figure made out of black smoke. 

But it has eyes, glowing orange embers, and it has a mouth. 

“Xu Minghao,” the mouth opens to say, showing two rows of teeth that should not exist, white and scintillating and solid. “I have been looking for you.”

“I know,” Minghao says. “I’ve always known my days were counted.”

“Minghao,” Junhui starts. “Hao, what’s going on?”

“He doesn’t know,” Minghao ignores Junhui, addresses the spirit directly. “He has nothing to do with all this. Please don’t take him.”

The terrifying mouth shakes with laughter. “Oh, little one, I do not care about your friend. He has nothing to offer me.” The cloud of smoke travels closer, the spirit now standing right on the other side of Minghao’s warding circle. “You, on the other hand, have something that belongs to me.”

“Junhui,” Minghao turns to him, “I’m—”

It happens in slow motion. The spirit extends a tendril like an arm, and it pierces effortlessly through Minghao’s defenses, reaches him and sinks into his chest as if he were made of soft butter. It looks almost comical for a moment, this stalagmite of dark smoke going through his ribcage, meat on a skewer. 

Then Minghao’s body crumbles like a stringless puppet and Junhui starts screaming. 

⚔️ ⚔️ ⚔️

Soonyoung finds him in his apartment surrounded by a worrying amount of empty bottles wearing clothes that haven’t been washed in weeks. He must have picked the lock, because Junhui never gave him a key. 

He kneels next to where Junhui is sitting on the floor his back to his bed. 

“Jun,” he says softly, “It’s me.”

Junhui thinks of words he could say. He doesn’t open his mouth. 

“Come on,” Soonyoung says, pulling at his sleeve, “When was the last time you ate? Jesus, this place smells.”

“Fuck off,” Junhui finally rasps out. He means that literally. He wants to be left alone. He’d rather melt into the floor, become one with the ground. He’d rather take root here, in this space he used to share with Minghao, in this room that used to be _ home. _

“Yeah, fat chance of that,” Soonyoung huffs. “Come on,” he repeats, “Let’s at least get you showered.” 

He somehow manages to pull Junhui up, walk him to the bathroom. Junhui undresses on autopilot, unbuttons his flannel shirt with heavy hands, clumsy fingers. When he’s stripped to his underwear Soonyoung turns on the spray, lets the water flow for a while before sticking his hand under to test the temperature. 

“Get in,” he tells Junhui. “I’ve seen you naked before, just get inside.” 

Junhui kicks his boxers off, climbs inside the tub. Soonyoung hands him the showerhead. 

“Do you need me to stay?”

_ No. Leave. _

“Yes,” Junhui hears himself say. 

“Okay,” Soonyoung nods. He takes Junhui’s shampoo from the shelf, uncaps it. “Hand.”

Junhui presents his open palm, and Soonyoung squirts a dollop of shampoo out of the bottle. It foams in Junhui’s hair, the smell fruity, artificial. He’s aware of his own actions, of the texture of his scalp under his fingers, of the water falling on his back; but at the same time it all feels very distant, like it’s happening to someone else. 

“Rinse your hair,” Soonyoung says. “You’re almost there.” 

He guides Junhui through the rest too, turns around to offer him some privacy when it’s time to wash his body, not that Junhui really cares in the state he’s in. When he’s done Soonyoung is waiting for him to step out of the bathtub with a large towel. He envelops Junhui in it, an almost-hug with fabric acting as a border. 

When he’s dry and dressed in clean clothes Soonyoung left for him on his bed, Junhui pads to the kitchen. Soonyoung is doing the dishes. There is a pot on the stove. 

“You don’t have to do all this,” Junhui croaks. 

“Shut up and eat your soup,” Soonyoung shakes his head affectionately. “It’s chicken broth, you’ll feel better.”

“I’m not sick,” Junhui says, but he pours himself a bowl anyway. It smells good, warm. 

“Didn’t say you were,” Soonyoung says, grabbing a hand towel. 

He sits at the table but doesn’t serve himself any food. Junhui takes a sip of broth, the steaming liquid almost painful as it travels down his esophagus. It lights a small fire inside his body, reawakens his organism. It tastes nice, too; Soonyoung added just enough spices for it to be tasty but not overwhelming. 

“How long are you here for?” Junhui asks. 

Soonyoung looks at him, expression unreadable. “As long as you need me.”

The first few days, not much changes. Soonyoung gathers the trash that’s been piling up in the apartment, changes Junhui’s sheets, opens the windows to let some air in. Junhui still sleeps most of the day, and not at all at night, waking Soonyoung up with screams. Soonyoung migrates from the couch to Junhui’s bed on the fourth day. 

“That’s where I finish my nights anyway,” he shrugs as Junhui watches him move his pillow and blanket to his room. “At least like that I’ll already be there when you have a nightmare.”

Sharing the bed does help. Junhui still wakes up screaming, but Soonyoung just has to roll over and sling his arm around him, pull him close until he stops shaking like a leaf and his brain realizes where he is. It makes things a little awkward in the morning, but Junhui is too exhausted and desolated to really care, and Soonyoung has never been the type to dwell on embarrassment. 

After a week Junhui lets himself be dragged outside. February is cold and uninviting, but Soonyoung only takes him to warm places: a coffee shop Junhui has never been to before, the gym, the small folk museum nobody ever visits… His goal is to get Junhui as physically tired as possible so that he can sleep through his bad dreams. It works in some ways and doesn’t in others—they work up to a workout routine that knocks both of them out as soon as their bodies hit the mattress, but Junhui still jerks awake shouting in the middle of the night no matter what. It’s a work in progress. 

As the snow begins to melt, monsters crawl out of their holes. 

There are no other hunters stationed in Gimhae; that’s why Junhui and Minghao picked it in the first place. It meant a steady income, a constant stream of jobs. 

With Minghao gone and Junhui out of circulation, it also means no one to protect the city. The first kumiho-related death in years makes it to the local news. Soonyoung isn’t quick enough to switch the TV channel. 

Junhui sets down his chopsticks, gets up from the table. 

“I need to get back out there.”

Soonyoung just stares for a moment. Junhui can't decipher that look—is it hope or concern? Is it both?

“I can call someone,” he offers. 

Junhui shakes his head. “No. This is my city.” He empties the remainder of his bowl of rice into a small glass container, stores that in the fridge. “And you’re already here, aren’t you? Let’s go hunting.” 

They find the fox in barely an hour. 

It’s nothing like hunting with Minghao. Soonyoung is a meticulous tracker, more detective than magician in how he unearths trails, collecting evidence with a trained eye, yearly practiced ease. Minghao was always a creature of instinct, raw power, almost a sixth sense. 

Soonyoung is also much better than Minghao with a blade. It’s never been an issue to Junhui—he and Minghao _ clicked _together because they were missing puzzle pieces, magic meets metal. Soonyoung is an incredibly talented spellcaster, but he can hold his own with a dagger just fine, and when they get to the kumiho, he naturally goes to kill it himself. 

“No,” Junhui stops him. To his credit, Soonyoung doesn’t need to be told twice, steps aside wordlessly. 

Junhui slices the fox open with more violence than necessary. He doesn’t wait for it to stop breathing before plunging his hand inside, tearing out the precious heart. It still pulsing weakly when he brings it to the surface. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until after the box is closed and Soonyoung wipes the blood off his hands with a handkerchief. Shoulders trembling, he lets out a broken sob, an ugly strangled sound.

Soonyoung holds him for what feels like an eternity, lets him empty out his sadness like that, bodies pressed tight together. Junhui buries his nose in the side of his neck, cries there wet and ugly, clutching Soonyoung’s jacket like a lifeline. 

That night, for the first time, he sleeps until the morning. 

Soonyoung stays. They hunt together, drive through the countryside in search of monsters, get drunk in bars where no one knows their names. Soonyoung takes the wheel when Junhui is tired, and they share hotel rooms and food and clothes; and it is nothing even remotely close to having Minghao back with him but it is _ something. _Junhui doesn’t know how to exist on his own, never had to. He watches Soonyoung drive sometimes, gratefulness threatening to spill from every pore, a weight like a stone at the bottom of his belly. 

His grief is like a shadow. Invisible sometimes, but large and looming in the sunlight. It is fleeting moments of happiness that are the worst; instants where he turns to laugh with Minghao and finds emptiness instead. Soonyoung doesn’t know how to handle him on days where the ache threatens to swallow him whole, and that makes things even more terrible, because Minghao could read Junhui like a book, never had to _ ask, _always knew what to do. There is a piece of Junhui that is missing, a broken limb that’s never going to set. 

In the darkness it is easier to talk. He tells Soonyoung about growing up on his parents’ farm, about his father’s weak magic, just enough for fertility spells for the crops. He tells Soonyoung about Minghao as a child, curious and tiny and fast, always climbing things—couches, their old cow, trees. He broke his arm like that one day, and Junhui’s mother had looked both angry and scared driving him to the hospital, Junhui in the backseat with Minghao, Minghao hiccuping with pain. 

He tells Soonyoung about the night of the accident, about the policeman that showed up on their doorstep and how something had compelled Junhui to open the door even though his mother had made him promise not to unlock it before she and his father got back. 

He doesn’t need to say more about that particular story. Soonyoung knows what happened next—he was there for it. 

After some jobs the adrenaline refuses to leave the body immediately, the rush too high. They go to the pub then, play darts all night, get slowly drunk on flavored soju. Soonyoung pretends to like beer, but really, he only really wants sweet things. Junhui is happy to indulge him. 

Women take interest sometimes. Junhui frankly wonders how willfully blind people can be—he couldn’t be less interested if he tried. Girls still attempt to chat him up, mystified by whatever they’ve made up hunters to be in their head. _ It’s also because you’re pretty, _Soonyoung laughs the one time Junhui is drunk enough to complain about it. 

Girls like Soonyoung, too. It’s unsurprising—he’s easy on the eyes and exudes charisma like he sprays himself with it in the morning, although he’s rarely fully aware of the effect he has on people. That cluelessness makes him more attractive, in Junhui’s eyes. He’s never been into arrogant men. Women find it endearing, want to dote on him. Soonyoung plays into it gleefully, bats his eyelashes and drawls _ noona _in his sweetest tone, accepts free drinks and attention like a happy cat. 

He never takes any of them up on their offers to take him home. Junhui knows it’s for his benefit, that Soonyoung doesn’t want to leave him alone, not even for a night—especially for a night. If he were a better man, he’d tell him not to worry. But Junhui is selfish. He likes it like that. He likes watching Soonyoung flirt with strangers all evening and then get into Junhui’s car, drive back to the room they share, and sleep in Junhui’s bed. It doesn’t matter that all they do in that bed is sleep, and that Soonyoung has no idea of the hunger that simmers inside Junhui. It is enough that Soonyoung comes home to _ him. _

Spring turns into the rainy season, flowers thirsty, clouds always low. Horrible things crawl out of swamps and bogs, river snakes and water spirits and slimy, hungry creatures with long bodies and long claws and long teeth. It’s the best season to hunt, and in just a week between the two of them Junhui and Soonyoung have more kills than they did in the past month. It’s grunt work, nothing exciting, but farmers pay good money to get rid of infestations, and once in a while they catch something with a body part worth reselling.

It rains all the time, and no matter how careful they are, someone always gets sick during that season. This year it’s Soonyoung who catches a cold, wallows miserably for a few days in the apartment. Junhui insists they take a break, drives them back to Gimhae where he can nurse Soonyoung back to health in his own place instead of a motel room with nothing but a microwave and smelly comforters. He makes soup and brings it to Soonyoung’s bedside, the act strangely reminiscent of another time, roles reversed. He goes to the market and buys fresh ginger, cleans it and cuts it into small pieces that he boils in water, makes ginger tea. He breaks down crying stirring honey into the beverage, head filled with memories of his mother making this for Minghao when they were small, but when he brings the mug to Soonyoung his eyes are dry again, barely red. 

Soonyoung declares himself cured after eight days, and even though he’s still sniffling Junhui agrees to let him out, mainly because they are both going stir-crazy. They don’t go for a hunt; instead they just walk around the city, get tteokbokki from a food truck in small paper plates and eat it on a bench. Soonyoung doesn’t look much like a hunter, in Junhui’s civilian clothes, long woolen scarf wrapped around his neck. He looks _ soft, _like he could be one of the people walking by going to their ordinary jobs, their ordinary lives. Junhui thinks of him wrestling a nine feet tall kumiho on his own. The two images don’t fit together. 

When they walk back to Junhui’s apartment building the sky is turning violet, the sun orange on the edge of the earth. Soonyoung links their fingers together as they walk up the stairs, only lets go when Junhui needs both his hands to get the door open. Junhui’s heart is a frightened bird inside his ribcage, flying and knocking itself against the walls. Soonyoung doesn’t seem to notice the disarray he just created, hangs his jacket at the door and makes a beeline for the kitchen, proudly announces he feels well enough to cook food. 

Junhui observes him move, surrounded by Junhui’s things, in Junhui’s apartment. Want pools low in his stomach, the type of yearning that can only be soothed by touch. 

“Help me cut the vegetables,” Soonyoung calls, and Junhui has to shake himself out of his stupefied state, has to consciously make himself walk to the counter and chop carrots and beans into small pieces. 

_ I’m in love with him, _ he realizes slowly, words finally catching up to feelings. _ I’m in love with him. _

“Soonyoung,” he says as Soonyoung drains the rice noodles he put to boil earlier. His voice comes out strained.

Soonyoung nods absently, focused on the frying pan in front of him. “Yeah?”

“I just…” Junhui starts, but then he lets the sentence trail off. “Thank you,” he settles on eventually. Soonyoung turns to look at him, fully present this time. 

“You’d do the same for me,” he says firmly, no pretense of not knowing what Junhui is referring to. 

He’s not wrong, but Junhui still feels like he owes him so much. 

“I don’t know what I would have done without you,” he says. 

“Survived,” Soonyoung says. “You’re so strong, Jun. You would have made it with or without me. I’m just glad I made things easier.” 

_ I don’t know about that, _Junhui wants to say, but it’s a useless argument. Soonyoung serves the stir-fry in two plates, grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge and divides that in two too. 

“Sit down and eat,” he tells Junhui, and the domesticity of it is unbearable. 

The food is good. He tells Soonyoung so, manages to make him blush. They turn on the TV at low volume but they don’t really watch it, chat idly instead. Junhui doesn’t ask about Soonyoung’s family. He’s been absent a long time now. Junhui knows how to read between the lines. 

He cleans the table because Soonyoung cooked, which means Soonyoung takes first turn at the shower. When Junhui enters his bedroom he’s just wearing pajama bottoms, toweling his hair. His skin is reddish from the hot water, humid still. Junhui’s throat feels very dry. 

“Bathroom’s free,” Soonyoung smiles at him. “God, I’m beat.”

“You’re still recovering,” Junhui says, forcing himself to look away. 

He expects Soonyoung to be sleeping when he finally gets into bed an hour later, but Soonyoung is awake, eyes wide open. The mattress dips when Junhui joins him, and Soonyoung turns to him, on his side. 

“Were you waiting for me?” he whispers. 

“No,” Soonyoung says. He’s a very bad liar. “Junhui,” he says.

Junhui blinks, his irises slowly adapting to the lack of light. He can see Soonyoung clearly now, bathed in dark blue. 

When Soonyoung kisses him it’s only half a surprise. The entire day has felt eerily like a dream, taken straight out from Junhui’s imagination. It makes sense, for a second, that Soonyoung would do exactly what Junhui wants him to do most. 

Then the fog in Junhui’s mind clears, and his brain catches up with his body. 

It’s a gentle kiss. Lips sliding against lips, nothing outrageous, just a meeting of mouths. Soonyoung’s lips are soft, and he exhales sharply into the kiss, parts them just a bit. Junhui reaches out reflexively, hand snaking up to cup his cheek.

It’s a good, comfortable kiss. 

“Soonyoung,” Junhui murmurs when they break apart, “What are you doing?”

“I’m kissing you,” Soonyoung answers, and then he rolls them over, straddles Junhui and kisses him again. “You’re my best friend,” he pants when they separate again, this time a little bit more disheveled. Junhui has a hand in his hair, dragging him back to his mouth. “You know that, right? You’re my best friend.” 

Junhui kisses him deeper, better, years of frustration poured into that one point of contact. He pulls Soonyoung towards him and doesn’t meet any resistance, curls his fingers around Soonyoung’s bicep. There is no resistance when Junhui’s tongue pushes past his parted lips either, just a content sigh. Heat spreads through Junhui’s veins, travels through his body lighting small fires. They only separate to breathe, rushed, and then they’re kissing again, and Soonyoung’s hand slides under Junhui’s shirt. Skin on skin, ablaze, and still somehow not enough. 

“Can you touch me?” Soonyoung asks, voice small and raspy. “Can you—please—”

“Yes,” Junhui breathes out. He has wanted this since before he knew what desire was. It is ridiculous, to him, that Soonyoung has to ask, that he thinks he might not get it. 

Soonyoung’s back arches as Junhui palms him through the thin fabric of his pants, and he rolls his hips forward, makes a pained sound at the back of his throat. Junhui decides he has no patience, not tonight, and slips his hand under the elastic waistband. 

“Give me a second,” he murmurs against the side of Soonyoung’s neck, teeth dragging there. He turns to dig blindly in his bedside drawer, whistles triumphantly when he fishes the half-empty bottle of lube. 

When he wraps a slick hand around Soonyoung’s cock, Soonyoung _ keens. _He bucks forward into Junhui’s hold, and he presses his face into Junhui’s chest to muffle the sounds. 

Junhui works him to his orgasm steadily, his other hand petting his hair while Soonyoung gasps nonsense against his clavicle, the small circular motions of his hips driving Junhui _ crazy. _He can’t help but push his hips up in return, seeking any sort of friction at all. This is what it would be like if Soonyoung was riding him, he thinks deliriously, except with nothing between them at all, and—

Soonyoung lets out a small sob when he comes, spilling all over Junhui’s fist, making a mess in his pants. His body goes taut as a wire and then releases, and he slumps on top of Junhui, still trembling with the aftershocks. Junhui lets go of him carefully, wipes his palm off on his own pants. He’s painfully hard in his briefs. 

“Jun,” Soonyoung says, still a little bit out of breath, “Do you need—?”

“Only, only if you want to,” Junhui gets out with difficulty, his mind hazy with lust. _ I just made him come. _

“Can I suck you off?” Soonyoung asks, terribly earnest. Even in the night Junhui can see his eyes, the question in them, the _ hunger. _ “I’ve never—I’ve never done that before, but I want to try.”

“Jesus,” Junhui swears, “Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

Soonyoung slithers down, peels Junhui’s pants off him. He presses his cheek against Junhui’s crotch over his underwear and Junhui lets out a string of expletives. 

He pauses when he gets Junhui naked, like the extent of what he’s about to do just fully dawned on him. Junhui cups his face in one palm tenderly. 

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says softly. 

“You’re big,” Soonyoung says, sounding a little dazed, and then he huffs. “God, this is embarrassing. I want to, I just—I’ve never really done anything with, well, anyone.”

Junhui frowns. The back of his neck burns. “Not even girls?”

Soonyoung flushes bright red. “No, not even girls.” 

It activates something terrible inside Junhui, awakens a dragon he didn’t even know was sleeping there. “I’ll guide you through it,” he says, tries to keep his voice even. “We can stop anytime if you don’t like something.”

Soonyoung nods, turns his face to kiss Junhui’s fingertips, and Junhui’s stomach twists in something that isn’t quite arousal. He bends down to lick a tentative stripe up the underside, fingers a ring around the base, and Junhui lets out a shaky breath. 

Maybe it’s for the best that they are doing this all lights off. Junhui isn’t sure he would have been able to take the clear image of Soonyoung with his lips wrapped around his cock, hollowing his cheeks as he finds a rhythm. Junhui has a hand in his hair, teeth gritted together in the effort not to thrust directly into the slick heat of Soonyoung’s mouth. 

It is a very average blowjob, objectively. Soonyoung is sloppy, has no endurance, and Junhui has to remind him to be careful with his teeth twice. Junhui also doesn’t… care. It’s _ good. _Hot and messy and wet, and it’s Soonyoung. Junhui feels the pleasure build up at the base of his spine, coil tightening until it has to break. 

“Soonnie,” he pants, tugging lightly on Soonyoung’s hair, “Baby, I’m going to come.” 

Soonyoung pulls off Junhui’s dick with a _ plop, _a string of saliva still connecting his red puffy lips to the head. There is nothing Junhui wants more in that instant than sink back into that velvety heat and fuck Soonyoung’s mouth until he comes. 

“Do I just—?” Soonyoung gestures. His voice is _ wrecked. _

“Yeah,” Junhui nods. “The way you’d get yourself off, I’ll tell you—”

Soonyoung jerks him off fast and hard, a look of intense concentration on his face. Junhui wants to kiss him until they both cannot breathe. He comes barely a minute later, head thrown back, swearing. When he opens his eyes Soonyoung has one of his own fingers in his mouth. 

“It tastes different than mine,” he says, nose scrunched up. Junhui chuckles in disbelief. This_ boy. _

“Come kiss me,” he demands, voice hoarse. 

“I just had your dick in my mouth,” Soonyoung grimaces. 

Junhui wraps a hand around the back of his neck, pulls him down. “I don’t care.” 

They kiss lazily, aimless and tender, until Soonyoung yawns sleepily in the middle of it and Junhui breaks into quiet laughter. His limbs are heavy but he forces himself to get out of bed to clean up in the bathroom and grab a washcloth for Soonyoung. 

“Here,” he tosses him a pair of clean sweats. “Don’t sleep in your gross pants in my bed.” 

They curl up against each other in the darkness, Soonyoung warm and solid against Junhui’s side, and for the first time in months Junhui starts to believe that maybe things aren’t going to be horrible forever. 

They don’t leave the apartment for days. Junhui wakes up the next morning with a clear plan: he’s going to sit Soonyoung down and they’re going to talk about what happened. All that flies out the window when Soonyoung corners him against the fridge and kisses the living daylight out of him, holding Junhui’s wrists above his head. He drops to his knees right after, mutters _ I’m going to get better at this, _and well, Junhui is only human. 

The third time happens on the couch, Soonyoung sitting, Junhui kneeling between the V of his legs, grip firm on Soonyoung’s thighs, _ let me show you how it’s done. _ It’s the most rigorous blowjob Junhui’s ever given in his life—he takes Soonyoung deep enough that he can press his nose to his pelvis, uses every trick he’s learned over the years. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to prove exactly but he’s certainly trying to prove _ something. _Soonyoung comes with a shout, eyes rolling back. 

“You swallowed,” he notes when he seems to have regained his mental functions. 

This, hilariously, is what makes Junhui flush bright red. “You, uh, don’t have to.”

“I want to try next time,” Soonyoung says, and all Junhui really hears is _ next time next time next time. _

He fucks Soonyoung’s thighs that night, lube slathered on the soft skin there, Soonyoung’s grip almost punitive in his hair, his little _ ah_s music to Junhui’s ear. _ Want you to fuck me for real, _Soonyoung pants, and Junhui bites the juncture of his neck and comes, painting the inside of his legs white. 

They share the shower the next day. It’s not just sexual; there is a primal need for _ closeness _blooming within Junhui, a hunger for skin on skin contact. He washes Soonyoung’s hair, pushes the wet bangs off his forehead and kisses his nose, his cheekbones, his chin. The water is warm enough to make everything foggy and slow, Soonyoung pliant under Junhui’s hands. He lathers a layer of soap over Soonyoung’s shoulders, slides his hand over the solid planes of his chest, his abs. Soonyoung instinctively spreads his legs a little when Junhui gets to his navel, and Junhui grins. 

“Can I touch you, baby?” he murmurs, and Soonyoung nods enthusiastically. 

He gives Soonyoung’s half-hard cock a few tugs, jerks him to full hardness but doesn’t linger there. Soonyoung whines when Junhui’s hand leaves him, back pressed to the bathroom tiles. He makes another sound when Junhui’s fingers trail over his perineum, tentative. 

“Oh,” Soonyoung gasps. Junhui drags his hand higher until his pointer is grazing over his rim. “Oh,” Soonyoung says again, shivering. 

Junhui’s fingers are slick with soap, the slide easy. He just circles Soonyoung’s hole, teasing, testing the waters. Soonyoung spreads his thighs further apart, gripping Junhui’s shoulder tightly for purchase. Junhui kisses the side of his neck, slips the tip of his finger inside. 

“That’s it,” Junhui says encouragingly as Soonyoung relaxes against him, “You’re doing so good, just breathe.”

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Soonyoung asks, voice strained.

“Not here,” Junhui says. “But yes, if you want me to.”

“I want you to,” Soonyoung says. “_Fuck,_” he hisses when Junhui inserts his finger to the knuckle, “That’s weird.”

“Bad weird?” Junhui asks. 

Soonyoung shakes his head. “No. I don’t—know. Can you—,” The rest of his question is lost as Junhui curls his finger upwards. “Fuck,” he swears again, “Good weird.” 

“I’m not doing two without lube,” Junhui tells him before carefully removing his hand from between Soonyoung’s legs. “Water's getting cold, too.”

Soonyoung’s eyes are glassy with arousal. They rinse off hastily, only get distracted once when he tries to kiss Junhui again, open-mouthed and filthy. 

The tip of Soonyoung’s hair is still wet when he gets on the bed, leaving droplets on Junhui’s pillow. Junhui climbs in after him, settles between his legs, presses his lips to the side of his knee. He kisses and bites his way up the expanse of Soonyoung’s thigh until he gets to the crease where thigh meets hip, sucks a mark on the delicate skin there. Soonyoung whimpers. 

“I’m gonna try something new,” Junhui says to him. “Tell me if you don’t like it.”

The first touch of Junhui’s tongue to his hole has Soonyoung sucking in a sharp inhale, his entire body tensing. Junhui grins, the satisfaction worth the building frustration from his neglected cock. He takes his time, licking long broad stripes at first, until Soonyoung weaves a hand in his hair in an attempt to drag him closer. Junhui spears his tongue then, holds Soonyoung’s ass spread open so he can lick inside, and Soonyoung moans louder than Junhui’s ever heard him before, leg kicking. He’s trembling slightly when Junhui comes up for air. 

“Pass me the lube, baby,” Junhui asks. 

This time when he slides the first finger inside it goes in smooth as butter. Soonyoung is impatient, wants more immediately, cock hard and leaking against his stomach. Junhui goes slow anyway, ignores the pleas. By the time he works him up to three Soonyoung is almost incoherent. 

He’s been so focused on Soonyoung that just rolling a condom on makes him gasp in relief, full awareness of his own body coming back to him. He sinks inside Soonyoung very, very slowly, muscles wire-tense. Soonyoung’s knuckles are white where he’s holding on to the sheets. Junhui bends down to kiss his collarbone. 

“Okay?”

“It’s—a lot,” Soonyoung grits out. “Just, just give me a second.” Junhui snakes a hand between their bodies to wrap it around his dick, strokes him leisurely to distract him from the stretch. It works as intended: Soonyoung’s hips roll up to meet the movement of Junhui’s hand and he moans, body slowly unclenching. “You can move, fuck, _ please _move.”

It’s trial and error until Junhui finds the right angle, the proper rhythm—slow and harsh, fucking all the way into Soonyoung with each thrust. Soonyoung goes liquid against the mattress, _ takes it, _ and Junhui feels the thread in his stomach ready to snap, the surface of his skin buzzing. He threads their fingers together on the bed, buries his nose in the crook of Soonyoung’s neck. There are words he’d say if he could formulate them, if his brain wasn’t empty of any thoughts that aren’t just _ Soonyoung, Soonyoung, Soonyoung. _

They have to emerge from the apartment eventually for food. Soonyoung hums his way through grocery shopping, a big dopey grin on his face, cheeks a little pink under the fluorescent lighting of the store. Junhui watches him with immense fondness, leaning against their shopping cart two steps behind. 

“You’re in a good mood,” he remarks when they’re back upstairs, putting the food away. 

“Sex is awesome,” Soonyoung laughs, pulling Junhui closer by his belt loop to press a kiss to the line of his jaw, nose at his neck. 

“You’re insatiable,” Junhui shakes his head, chuckling, but his hands have settled on Soonyoung’s hips, the hold already habit. “Food,” he mumbles when Soonyoung’s mouth migrates lower to suck a bruise right above his collarbone, “You said you were hungry.” 

Soonyoung makes a disappointed noise, but he does pull away. 

“There was a ghoul sighting two towns down,” Junhui says hours later, flipping through the newspapers. They’re on the couch, Junhui’s head in Soonyoung’s lap, Soonyoung idly stroking his hair. 

“You want to get it?” Soonyoung yawns. The sun is setting slowly in the background, soft warm light filtering in. One of them should get up to switch on the ceiling lamp, Junhui notes absently. 

“No one else will,” he says. “It’s not dangerous enough for the Choi clan to dispatch anyone, and we don’t know if anyone else is traveling through.”

“The pay isn’t even going to cover gas,” Soonyoung grimaces. “If we even get paid.”

Junhui pushes himself up, scowling. “Okay, rich boy, since when does that even matter to you?” Soonyoung looks away. Junhui frowns, his initial annoyance immediately replaced with worry. “Soonyoung?”

“I’ve been disowned,” Soonyoung says very quietly. 

“What?” It makes no sense. Soonyoung’s parents were always severe, inflexible on tradition maybe, but Junhui lived inside their house. He has sat at family dinners, he has watched Soonyoung hunt with his father. Soonyoung was not often coddled, but he was always loved. “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Soonyoung says. “And I don’t really want to talk about it.” 

Junhui wants to press, but something about Soonyoung’s expression tells him not to. He hooks two fingers under Soonyoung’s chin instead, makes him face Junhui again, touches their foreheads together. 

“We’re gonna be okay, you and me. We have each other. Don’t worry about the money, I’ve been doing this for a long time on my own.”

It feels weird and wrong, to put it like that—Junhui was never on his own. But he cannot think about Minghao right now, he cannot—

“It’s not just the money,” Soonyoung says in a small voice. 

“I know, Soonnie,” Junhui sighs. “I know.” 

They drive to Jinyeong and kill a ghoul. They drive to Yangsan and kill a river snake. They drive to Samnangjin and banish seven gwisin. Junhui fucks Soonyoung in the back of his car at a rest stop off the 104, palm splayed over Soonyoung’s heart, and tells him he loves him. Soonyoung gets trashed at every bar they go to and doesn’t talk about his family. Junhui sees Minghao’s lifeless body every time he closes his eyes, and as if by instinct Soonyoung always knows, is always there to wrap his arms around Junhui and hold him close close close until the darkness recedes and he can take a breath without drowning. Soonyoung traces his protection rune over Junhui’s hip with one finger, no magic except for his love, and then puts his mouth there too. _ For your nightmares, _he whispers in the night, and Junhui is so in love with him it hurts his chest.

It’s not perfect. They fight. Soonyoung is reckless, and he can be selfish, and he still thinks the world owes him respect solely because of his name and doesn’t know how to adjust to an existence where that is not necessarily true. Junhui is too cautious, and he can be childish, and he knows how to use words to hurt almost as bad as his dagger. 

But they never go to sleep mad at each other, and they never leave the apartment in anger. Soonyoung does that exactly once, and comes back to find Junhui terrified and useless, sitting in a corner with empty eyes. _ I kept thinking that you could have died, anything can happen out there, and the last thing I’d have told you would have been— _

Summer comes with the heat, heavy and harder to fight than any monster. The old AC in the apartment isn’t strong enough to eradicate the humidity, and on the worst days it makes life impossible to live, both of them reduced to whiny puddles of sweat. Junhui alternates between cold showers and lying half naked on the kitchen floor, where the tiled floor is somewhat cool. Soonyoung carries two paper fans with him at all times, and dramatically announces he’s going to die every hour. 

“We should have sex,” he tries on a particularly boring afternoon, after hours of inactivity. 

Junhui glares from his spot on the floor. “If you touch me right now I will kill you.”

“Sexy,” Soonyoung grins. “No, seriously, can we please do _ something. _Anything. My brain is turning into mush from disuse.”

“That’s not any different from usual,” Junhui says, and gets kicked in the shin for his trouble. “You could always, you know. Call your parents,” he adds after a beat, more serious. 

Soonyoung immediately tenses. “No.”

“Soonyoung, it’s been months. I’m sure they worry.”

“Trust me, they don’t.”

Junhui puffs, brows knitted together. “I find that hard to believe, what could you possibly—”

“It’s because I’m gay,” Soonyoung finally explodes. “They don’t want to talk to me because I’m gay. That’s it. That’s the big mystery. Or, well, not gay exactly, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m in love with you, and they know, and I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d look exactly like that,” he hiccups, talking too fast, and Junhui doesn’t know what he _ looks like _ but he knows he _ feels _nauseous and angry. He gets up on his knees, wraps both hands around Soonyoung’s legs. Soonyoung looks down at him. “Don’t,” he says softly. 

“Don’t what?” Junhui asks.

“It’s not your fault, and there is nothing you can do about it.” 

“Oh,” Junhui snickers bitterly, “There’s a few things I can think of.” He’s overwhelmed with the sort of rage that demands violence.

“Don’t,” Soonyoung repeats, cupping the back of his head, tilting his face up for a kiss. It lands half off, and then Junhui turns to kiss him properly, and it tastes a little desperate, and very sad. Something snaps inside Junhui’s ribcage, the wrath turning to sorrow, and tenderness as vast as the ocean. 

They make love on the floor, heat and discomfort be damned, slow and careful and terrible, every roll of Junhui’s hips a confession. 

⚔️ ⚔️ ⚔️

Junhui wakes up to an empty bed for the first time in months. He’s not worried, or at least not at first—there are countless reasons for Soonyoung to not be on his left, although he never wakes up first. Blinking, Junhui checks the watch on his bedside. It’s five thirty in the morning. He frowns. 

He pads to the kitchen wrapped in his blanket. September brought the wind, and while it’s not exactly cold outside yet, it’s breezy in the morning, and they left the window open the night before. All the lights are off, and the sun isn’t quite up yet, only halfway in the sky, the kitchen bathed in a yellowish glow. There is no coffee in the pot, no food on the stove, nothing to indicate Soonyoung got up in the middle of the night hungry enough to leave their bed. 

“Soonnie?” Junhui calls. Only silence answers him. A sinking feeling in his gut, Junhui checks the hallway. 

Soonyoung’s old leather jacket isn’t on the rack. His boots are gone, too, and so are his nice sneakers, and the felt coat he only puts on when they go out for dinner in the city, on dates they still pretend aren’t dates. Junhui lets out a shaky exhale and runs to their room. 

Soonyoung’s drawers are empty. His side of the closet is empty too, hangers stripped, clothes gone. Junhui opens and closes everything frantically, trying to make sense of the situation. 

It’s as if Soonyoung was never there. It’s as if he had never even existed. 

Shock doesn’t immobilize him at first, not like losing Minghao did—maybe because Minghao left a body behind, something to cradle, something to bury. Putting Minghao in the earth held a horrifying finality, but it allowed Junhui peace—it allowed him to walk away from that grave with the terrible, terrible certainty that he had seen his little brother for the last time, and there was nothing he could do. 

Soonyoung’s absence drives him crazy because it is nonsensical. There is nothing material for Junhui to struggle with, no corpse to hold a funeral for. He tries being angry, but even that demands an energy he finds he doesn’t have. 

Junhui is good at one thing. He’s a hunter. He knows how to track _ things _ down, he figures _ people _cannot be that different. There is nothing to do in the apartment, not when the walls are closing down on him and he hasn’t slept in days, waking from nightmares where he sees Soonyoung dying instead of Minghao, no one by his side to tell him he’s simply dreaming. He packs enough clothes for a few weeks and straps every knife he owns to his body, and he gets behind the wheel.

Driving in silence is unfamiliar like a foreign language. Minghao liked fiddling with the radio, never let a mile pass without music. Soonyoung could never shut up. 

Junhui travels south first, to Busan. It’s a short ride, barely an hour, half an hour added within city limits for him to arrive at his destination. 

The man who opens the door looks nothing like a Choi, but Junhui has learned a long time ago not to judge a book by its cover. 

“Wen Junhui,” he says in lieu of greeting, and Junhui is getting very, very tired of people knowing things he doesn’t. 

“I don’t know your name,” he says, “But seeing as you clearly know mine, I think you should let me in.”

“I’m Jeon Wonwoo,” the man tilts his head to the left. He doesn’t step aside. “Why are you here?”

“Tell Seungcheol I want to see him. He said to drop by.”

“Things have changed since,” Wonwoo says. “You should leave.”

Junhui closes his eyes for a furtive second, takes a deep breath. “Tell Seungcheol I’m here,” he repeats, voice icy. “He can tell me to leave himself.” 

Wonwoo sighs. “Come in. Wait in the corridor.” 

Choi Manor is an old, imposing building. It looks out of place in the middle of Busan, straight out of another age. For all their talk about modernization of techniques, the Choi clan is still attached enough to their history to preserve the mansion exactly as it was built two centuries ago.

Junhui sits on one of the burgundy velvet benches, stares at the row of paintings on the wall facing him. They’re all portraits, another sign of time. Seungcheol’s father is the most recent one, in expensive hunting clothes, hand resting on his rifle. 

“Junhui,” Seungcheol’s voice comes from the end of the hall. Junhui gets up instantly. 

“Soonyoung is missing,” he says, no preamble. “I—I can’t call his parents, I’m not sure—”

“We know what happened,” Seungcheol cuts him off. 

Junhui’s stomach tightens with hope. “You do?”

Seungcheol’s expression twists. “Sorry, I meant with his parents. I don’t know where Soonyoung is.”

Junhui huffs out a short breath, jaw set tight. “Is that why I wasn’t allowed inside?”

“Sorry,” Seungcheol shakes his head sadly, “That wasn’t me. I don’t—I don’t care. About what people do behind closed doors.”

Slow, simmering anger bubbles up in Junhui’s throat. “I love Soonyoung out in the open too.”

“Sorry,” Seungcheol repeats for the third time, wincing. In his defense, he really does look miserably apologetic. “Soonyoung is my friend, Junhui. I was worried when I learned he left his clan, but he has no claim on his name anymore, and my father said—”

“He left?” Junhui interrupts him. “He wasn’t kicked out?”

Seungcheol frowns. “He didn’t tell you? He was given a choice. His parents found him someone to hunt with, and word on the street was that this was both a hunting partnership and an engagement. He said he had something to do that couldn’t wait. That was _ months _ago, Junhui.” 

“Me,” Junhui says slowly, realization crashing over him like a wave. “It was me—he had to come help _ me._”

“We haven’t heard from him since, but maybe someone from his clan has? I’m really sorry. I wish I could help.” 

“You can start by talking to your father,” Junhui says, curt. “If you disagree with him, maybe you should tell him. Or things will always remain the same. There will be others like Soonyoung.”

Seungcheol bites his bottom lip, looks away. “You weren’t raised in a clan,” he says finally. “You don’t understand.”

“Soonyoung was,” Junhui counters. “You all failed him. If he’s hurt, if anything has happened to him, it’s on all of you. You should think about that.”

He doesn’t look behind him when he leaves the manor. 

It’s a much longer trip to Hanam. Junhui doesn’t stop, three canned espressos swimming in his bloodstream, foot on the accelerator. He only slows down twice when he sees flashing red lights in the distance, and solely because getting pulled over would take precious time. 

He hasn’t been back since he was a teenager drowning in grief. It’s strange, how much a house can change while also staying the same. Junhui recognizes the walls, the chips in the paint, the weeds in the backyard. There are new sounds—a dog barking, children playing in the garden. There are new feelings, too, like Soonyoung’s mother staring at Junhui like he’s a ghost on her doorstep when once upon a time her smile was the only balm Junhui knew. 

“Auntie,” he says, voice hoarse. 

“Junhui,” she says, her mouth a thin, tense line. “You shouldn’t be here, son.” 

“I don’t know where he is,” he begs, hand on the frame so that she cannot close the door. “Please, I’m worried something happened to him.” 

Her expression shatters. “What do you mean? Isn’t he with you?”

Junhui shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him in more than a week. He didn’t—he didn’t say he was going anywhere, auntie, I don’t know—”

She pulls him inside the house, pulls him inside her embrace. He shakes in her arms, sobs threatening to leave his mouth, spill out like dirty secrets. He bites them back in. 

“What is this?”

Soonyoung’s father is standing in the hallway like an angry god. His eyes are thunderous. 

“Uncle,” Junhui bows. The older man does not return the greeting. 

“I took you in,” he says, face pinched. “Treated you like family, taught you my art.”

“I’m grateful,” Junhui bows again. He’s trying to remember his rage, but mostly he feels bone-deep exhaustion and a strange longing. It is hard to cut the strings of belonging. 

“You took my only son,” Soonyoung’s father says, and Junhui knows it is meant to be hard, a cold accusation, but mainly what he hears is despair. “Is that how you repay me?”

“I didn’t make Soonyoung love me,” Junhui says, voice choked. “He did that all on his own. I would never take him from you, not when I know how much he—,” he gulps to will the tears away. They catch at the corner of his eyes, stinging. “You didn’t see him. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, I think he knew I would have driven here immediately. Uncle, he was so sad. He wanted to come home.” 

Soonyoung’s mother steps in. “Junhui says Soonyoung is missing.” 

“That’s not my problem,” his father says. “He made his choice.”

“My son is missing,” she repeats, words wavering. “He could be in danger.” 

“I taught him how to defend himself,” Kwon senior says, final. 

Junhui knows that tone. There will be no winning here. There is no help to be sought. 

He’s on his own. 

He sets his base in a small motel in the suburbs. Pins a large map of the country to the wall, marks the cities where Soonyoung _ could _ be, places where they have acquaintances, places they’ve visited before, places they used to go to as teens. He marks monster sightings too, unusual ones, just in case. Hunting is a job, but it is also an addiction. If Soonyoung is out there—and he has to be, he _ has _to be—then he probably is still hunting, and he’s always liked his creatures big and flashy. 

He crosses the entire province of Gyeonggi like that, city by city and then town by town, village by village. It takes him weeks, combing through every spot on his map. There is no trace of Soonyoung anywhere. 

Soonyoung’s mother calls him every few days, at first, hides it from her husband. She wants to know about his progress, offers insight. Junhui can hear the fear in her voice. After a while it becomes harder and harder to sympathize, knowing she could have done something and didn’t, watched Soonyoung leave and let him go, alone, unsheltered, unloved. The phone calls become more and more spaced out as time passes. She’s giving up, Junhui realizes after she hangs up one morning, her voice hollow and tired. She’s already in mourning. 

Junhui refuses to mourn. He packs up his shit and drives to Seoul, restarts the whole process there, knocks on every door. Most don’t open—he has a reputation now. He got the Xu heir killed, the whispers say. He lost Kwon’s only son. 

It takes him half a year to break. Alone in a foreign room in Andong, he considers, for the first time, that Soonyoung doesn’t want to be found. 

The door of his old apartment squeaks when Junhui pushes it open, whining from the disuse. Everything is exactly as he left it, with a layer of dust on top. He sneezes, hangs up his coat, and wishes for the first time that he had a pet to welcome him, a dog that would rush in wagging his tail, happy to see him, unconditionally. Loneliness crashes over him like a tsunami, almost makes his knees buckle. He misses Soonyoung in a profoundly physical way, his body aching. He misses Minghao beyond words, beyond sorrow, a hole in his chest he has learned to carry, has accepted as his constant companion. 

He knows, logically, that he needs to move on. Whatever hope he had, whatever flicker, it has long been extinguished. He’s in survival mode now, his ribcage full of untended graves, too much grief for two shoulders to hold. 

Hunting is the only constant. He breaks his lease, withdraws the entirety of his bank account, stores the cash in an old hunting box after he carves out the velvet lining. It’s Soonyoung’s, his sister’s engraving on the outside, security spells still holding. He puts it at the very end of the trunk for emergencies, behind everything he owns that could fit in bags, and leaves everything else behind. When he hits the road, leaving Gimhae forever, he wants it to feel like relief, but mostly he is empty, bones heavy, directionless for the first time in his life. 

⚔️ ⚔️ ⚔️

On the first anniversary of Soonyoung’s disappearance, Junhui bleaches his hair blond. 

He stares at himself in the mirror, in the small badly lit bathroom of a hotel room he’s been calling home for the past few weeks, his hair long and dark. He looks exactly as he did when he was brought in on the Kwon estate, before Soonyoung’s sister had taken him to the guest bathroom and sat him on the edge of the tub to cut his hair regulation short, nice and neat and practical. He had wondered then why he couldn’t simply tie it up the way he used to when he was working on the farm, and she had laughed, pointed at her own short hair. _ Some monsters will grab anything, _ she’d said. _ Don’t give them anything extra to hold. _

He doesn’t know why he does it. His reflection taunts him, a parody of an age golden and out of reach. His mother used to braid his hair, put flowers in it in the spring. Minghao liked to tug it gently to get his attention when they were children. 

He goes to the pharmacy and picks up a bottle of cosmetic bleach, spends one hour with his head upside down in the sink slathering every lock until it burns his scalp and he has to rinse it. When he dries it the color is uneven, highlights of platinum but mainly dirty blonde. He looks like a stranger. 

It’s the first time in a long while he feels satisfied about something he did. 

On the second anniversary of Soonyoung’s disappearance, Junhui walks into a tattoo parlor. He picks it on the spot, no particular reason, split second decision. When they were younger Minghao used to call him impulsive, but he had to learn to tone that down; courage makes a great hunter, but impetuousness makes a dead one. This, though, holds no consequences. This is Junhui’s body to scar, and he has not had a partner to put in danger in years. He can do whatever he wants with it. 

The tattoo artist, who introduces himself as Yoon Jeonghan, is a guy about Junhui’s age, maybe a few years older. He’s beautiful, arms covered in black flowers and snakes, long silver hair falling over his shoulders. He puts it up in a bun as he gets ready to sketch, says it gets in his way but he doesn’t have the heart to cut it. 

“It’s a symbol,” Junhui tells him when Jeonghan asks about what he has in mind. “Here—just—let me draw it for you.” 

“That’s a spell,” Jeonghan notices, frowning, when Junhui slides the paper across the table to him. “I’m sorry, I don’t really do… Hey, are you sure you don’t want me to give you the address of someone who does magic-infused tattoos?”

“No,” Junhui shakes his head. “It’s not—I don’t want it for protection, it’s just—it’s important to me.”

Jeonghan studies him for a long silent moment. “Okay,” he says finally. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Junhui repeats. “I want it here,” he points at his left hip. 

“That’s right on the bone,” Jeonghan arches an elegant eyebrow. “Gonna hurt like a bitch.” 

“Good.” 

“O_kay_,” Jeonghan says again, amusement on his face now. “Pants off, then.”

It _ does _hurt like hell, and it bleeds, too. Junhui has stayed quiet and expressionless through worse, and so he grits his teeth and waits it out patiently. Jeonghan whistles by the end of it.

“I’ve had a claw go through my shoulder,” Junhui shrugs. “I know how to take pain.”

“I dated a hunter for a while,” Jeonghan smiles. “You really are all the same,” he chuckles. 

Junhui walks out of the shop with his skin buzzing, his body restless. It’s still too early, with too much of the day left, and he doesn’t want to think about anything. He’s been trying to avoid his own head all day. 

He gets drunk at a bar he knows hunters don’t frequent, fucks a stranger in the back of his car, doesn’t think about Soonyoung when he comes—thinks about Soonyoung the entire time, the memory of his smile imprinted on Junhui’s eyelids for him to stare at every time he closes his eyes. 

On the third anniversary of Soonyoung’s disappearance, he starts the day with soju at eight in the morning and steadily builds up his way to vodka, ends up puking his guts out in the street at four in the afternoon. 

“Really thought I’d feel better by now,” he tells a passing pigeon, sitting on the curb waiting for his head to stop spinning. He’s referring to his day. He’s referring to the past three years. He’s referring to his entire life. 

He hunts. He hunts alone, runes barely holding sometimes, no one to watch his back. He collects scars like one might collect stamps—proof of travel, proof of survival. His body slowly turns into a roadmap—here I wanted to die but I didn’t, here I wanted to die but I didn’t, here I bled for hours on my own on the riverbank and somehow didn’t fucking die, again. 

He goes to the cemetery monthly. Brings his mother flowers, lights incense for his father. He sits at Minghao’s grave, back against the tombstone, tells him stories. He never cries, not where the dead can hear him. 

He doesn’t let strangers touch him anymore. Hands on him feel like lead, heavy and burning and dirty. He still wakes up screaming every night, counts along to his own heartbeat to catch his breath, nails digging into the flesh of his hip to anchor himself.

He crosses paths with Seungcheol, once, on a hunting trip down south, at the border. Junhui spots him first, from where he’s laying in a bed of leaves waiting for the kumiho he’s been tracking for days. Seungcheol isn’t alone—there is another young man with him, tall, feline face. They move in unison, practiced, _ linked. _Junhui remembers how it felt to hunt like that, with a bond so strong words became useless. As they come closer, Junhui recognizes the boy from Choi Manor, Jeon Wonwoo. Seungcheol looks at him like he’s afraid he might lose him if he blinks. Junhui wonders if he ever was that obvious when he was staring at Soonyoung. 

“You’re on our territory,” Wonwoo glares when they finally reach him. Seungcheol puts a hand on his forearm. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and Wonwoo immediately relaxes under his touch. “It doesn’t matter, none of this really matters.” He turns to Junhui, and there is real regret in his eyes. Junhui wishes he had it in him to forgive him. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Seungcheol says softly. “I didn’t get to say it, back then.”

“You should be careful,” Junhui says, voice raspy from disuse. “You’re out in the open too, Choi Seungcheol.” 

On the fourth anniversary of Soonyoung’s disappearance, Minghao knocks on Junhui’s door.

⚔️ ⚔️ ⚔️

Junhui has a bottle of milk in one hand when he pads to the door, thinking it might be the postman, or maybe someone knocking on the wrong number. He drops it the second the door is opened, glass shattering on the floor, shards flying everywhere. 

“Hi,” Minghao says. 

Junhui cannot speak. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. His hands act of their own accord, grabbing Minghao by his coat, dragging him in. He’s real enough, heavy human weight, for Junhui to believe he’s not dreaming.

With Minghao in his arms, he cries. Big, ugly sobs that rack up his whole body, frame shaking. Nose buried in Minghao’s hair, breathing him in, hands roaming to check for injuries, he cannot stop the tears from flooding. 

“_Gē,_” Minghao laughs weakly, “I’m here. I’m really here, please stop crying.” 

Junhui unglues himself from him just enough to stare at him again. He’s wearing the clothes he had on the night he died.

“What—,” Junhui stammers, “_How—_”

“Soonyoung brought me back,” Minghao says, and oh, he’s crying too. Junhui wipes the tears away, cups his face, looks at him, cannot stop _ looking _at him. “Soonyoung walked the underworld to bring me back.” 

“I don’t understand,” Junhui says, and then the meaning of Minghao’s words hits him. “Soonyoung,” he hiccups, “You know where Soonyoung is.”

“Gē,” Minghao starts, but Junhui cannot hear him, cannot hear anything. There is static buzzing in his ears, and his surroundings are blurring together, his peripheral vision bleeding out so that only one focal point stands out.

Behind Minghao, impossible and yet concrete, Soonyoung is looking at Junhui like a man emerging from the desert seeing water. 

⚔️ ⚔️ ⚔️

There is an old Korean legend, about a man who tried to evade death. When the Jeoseung Saja came to take him, he found the man had planted orange trees all around his house to ward off evil. Using a peach tree, the Jeoseung still made it inside the house, but the man had pierced a silver pin on his head, and as such evil could not touch him. But the Jeoseung found a way again, hid for days under the floorboard and attacked him when he was washing his face, hit him with an iron hammer. Still, the man’s will did not waver, and he dug himself out of the underworld, but his freedom only lasted one breath: his family had buried his body already, and he suffocated in dirt, and died again.

It’s a story for children, but the message remains: balance must be kept. There is no escaping death if you are meant to die. If a soul is meant to leave this realm, sooner or later, the Jeoseung Saja will come and claim their due. 

The only way to bargain with death is sacrifice: a soul for a soul, balance intact. 

⚔️ ⚔️ ⚔️

“You left without telling me,” Junhui says. He doesn’t dare move yet. Minghao has left the room, and Junhui supposes he should be appreciative of his discretion, but not having visual proof of his return anymore is just adding to the twirl of anxiety in his stomach. “You vanished without a trace, as if you—as if you had never even been there.”

“I didn’t know if it was going to work,” Soonyoung says. He’s also frozen in place. “And the portal was only going to be open for that one second, in that exact location. I didn’t—there was no _ time, _and if I—I thought it would be easier for you.” He takes a deep breath, shakes his head. “That’s a lie, actually. I just knew I wasn’t going to be able to leave, if we said goodbye.”

“It broke me,” Junhui says. “It broke me, do you understand? Losing you, after losing Minghao, it destroyed something in me.” He thinks he’s supposed to be mad, but there are no words he knows for the emotion he’s experiencing. It does not feel like anger. “But you’re here. You’re here, now. You—you exist again.” 

He doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince. One arm extended, he expects Soonyoung to complete the circle, reach out. Soonyoung doesn’t move. 

“Junhui,” he says, and his voice sounds hollow, “I made a deal.” 

Ice slices through Junhui’s bones. “No,” he hears himself say more than he actively formulates the word. He takes a step forward, tries to touch Soonyoung. Soonyoung grabs his wrist and holds his arm at bay. “No,” Junhui repeats, “Don’t do this to me. You can’t do this to me.” 

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Soonyoung shakes his head. 

“Soonyoung,” Junhui starts. His words are shaky. “I waited four years.”

Soonyoung’s expression fissures. He releases Junhui from his grip, and Junhui falls directly into his arms, clutching his shirt. Soonyoung’s body is a terrible relief against his, chest to chest, solid and real and warm. 

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats close to Junhui’s ear now, a murmur. “I did this because I love you. You’ll forgive me one day.”

“I’ll never forgive you,” Junhui says with certainty, bringing him closer, impossibly closer. He needs to feel him. He wants them to melt into each other, liquid metal, turn into one single entity impossible to separate, and then no one will be able to take Soonyoung from him. They’ll have to break Junhui’s bones.

When they kiss it burns. Four years, one thousand four hundred and sixty days, and Junhui still knows how to do this eyes closed, reflexively, muscle memory taking over. He cups Soonyoung’s face between two reverent, furious hands, tilts his head up and licks inside his mouth, animal and hungry and so terribly sad. Soonyoung moans low in his throat, a small, wounded sound. 

“Junhui,” he gasps. “Jun, baby, wait—”

“No,” Junhui says, voice hard. “They can wait. I’m not giving you up tonight. I’m owed that much.”

Every hunter knows the risks when they take up the dagger. Fighting with the one person you trust the most by your side is a double edged sword. Dying is one thing, losing your better half is another. Junhui did that once already.

He wonders how many married pairs have kissed the fear and the despair away the way he’s doing right now, the night before an expedition they knew was doomed. He wonders if anyone has been in his shoes before, touching a lover for the last time and knowing it is the last time. He wonders how they managed not to tremble, not to break. 

“Junhui,” Soonyoung breathes out, fingers retracing scars he’s seeing for the first time. When he gets to the tattoo on Junhui’s hip he laughs bitterly, bubbles of air in the night. “That’s my rune, Jun.”

“No one owns runes,” Junhui tries to contradict him, cheeks on fire, echoes of an old, forgotten conversation. Soonyoung spreads his palm over it, hot. 

“It’s _ my rune,_” he repeats, a little dazed. “You thought I left you behind and you still inked my protective spell on your body? _ Junhui_,” he says, and he sounds almost pained. “Fuck, Jun, I love you.” He kisses the spot right above Junhui’s collarbone, the one he used to love to mark, an eternity ago. “I love you,” he says again, the words wet against Junhui’s skin. 

“I wanted to remember,” Junhui explains, panting, because Soonyoung’s hand has moved from his hipbone now, traveled lower. “I wanted it to hurt so I wouldn’t forget.” 

“I’m sorry,” Soonyoung presses the apology into Junhui’s chest like a kiss. _ I’m sorry, _ a trail down his body, lips aerial, an act of worship. _ I’m sorry. _

He digs his thumb in the junction where Junhui’s thigh meets his pelvis, and Junhui spreads his legs reflexively, _ welcome home, I’ve been waiting for you. _

“Time passes differently, down there,” Soonyoung tells him, voice low. Junhui’s head is pillowed on his chest, Soonyoung’s fingers carding through his hair. “I was only supposed to be there a month.”

“One week for every year,” Junhui whispers. 

“Your hair is blond,” Soonyoung says. “This, here,” he points to the old injury on Junhui’s shoulder, “That’s the kind of scar you get when your partner fucks up.”

“I didn’t have a partner,” Junhui says. Soonyoung makes a low, broken sound, hides his face in Junhui’s hair. “Don’t say you’re sorry,” Junhui stops him. “Did you know, when you went down? That you were never really going to come back?”

Soonyoung is quiet for a long time. That’s answer enough. 

Soonyoung is asleep at dawn. So is Minghao, curled up on the sofa in the other room. Junhui leans down to press a kiss on his forehead as he’s heading out. Minghao makes a tiny sound in his sleep but doesn’t wake up. 

The sun rises slowly, bloodlike. Junhui waits, elbows on the balustrade. He knows it won’t be long. 

The Jeoseung Saja looks nothing like the reaper in the old scrolls Junhui has seen in museums or in books. He is a creature of smoke and shadow, shapeless and fluid. His mouth has teeth, sharp and long and bright. 

“Oh,” Junhui frowns. “We’ve met before.” 

“Yes,” the Death God nods. “I came to take a boy once, that was supposed to have died many winters ago. You were there.” 

“You’re going to take someone from me again,” Junhui says. 

“I do not take _ from _you. I collect. Kwon Soonyoung’s soul is my due.” 

“No,” Junhui says. 

The Jeoseung, as much as a God can be, is taken aback. “No?”

“I mourned him for four years. Isn’t my grief payment enough?”

“Your sorrow has a weight,” the Jeoseung says, “But it is not a soul.” 

“I have something else to offer you,” Junhui says. The Death God comes closer. 

“What does a mortal have that I could want?”

Junhui unstraps his dagger from his leg, presents it. 

“You kill with this,” the Jeoseung says. 

“Yes,” Junhui nods. “Monsters.”

“Children of the night,” the Jeoseung hisses. “Souls like any other soul! You take them before they are due, you and your ilk. You play pretend at being gods.”

Junhui smiles. He knows he has won. 

“I never will again. You can have my blade.” 

The Death God frets, agitated, a fluctuating cloud. 

“What will be your purpose, then, Wen Junhui?”

“I’m going to take my little brother to the sea,” Junhui says. “We can build a house there. He has magic hands, hands that heal better than they hurt. We can help people. I’m good with a knife, I can make things.”

“You want Kwon Soonyoung in exchange for your dagger.”

“Yes,” Junhui says again.

The Jeoseung’s almost-face is so close now Junhui can see the different tendrils of smoke, constantly moving, like tentacles. 

“What will _ he _do, then, if I leave him here? Will he still hunt?”

“Not your kind,” Junhui assures him. “Just for food.” 

The Death God moves away again. He doesn’t have eyes, doesn’t have eyebrows, but strangely he looks contemplative. 

“Humans,” he says finally, “You perplex me. You are ready to bargain so much for each other.”

“I think it’s love,” Junhui says. “It makes you do really dumb, really dangerous things.”

“I will accept your offering,” the Jeoseung says. “If you ever break your promise, I will come back, and take much more from you.”

Before he even has the time to speak, Junhui finds himself surrounded by smoke, a miniature tornado around him, dizzyingly fast. It leaves him on his knees when it’s over, palms scratched from his fall. He looks down. 

His blade is gone. 

He runs back inside the suite, heart thumping so fast and loud it’s threatening to break through his ribcage and tumble down. 

Minghao is still on the couch, his chest rising and falling steadily with each breath. 

In the bedroom, Soonyoung is sleeping soundly, warm, _ alive. _

“What’s goin’ on?” he mumbles when Junhui gets back into the bed, blinking confusedly. 

Junhui wraps himself around him, brings him as close as possible, holds him as tight as he can and inhales. Soonyoung smells familiar, even after all this time, even after crossing hell.

“Nothing,” he murmurs against the back of Soonyoung’s neck, presses the softest kiss there. “Go back to sleep, love. We’re going to be okay.”

⚔️ ⚔️ ⚔️

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for sticking around ❤️  
comments and kudos keep the author well fed! i’d love to explore this universe in further works if there is interest—tell me what you liked and what you’d like to see more of!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [tiger, tiger, burning bright](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26275045) by [fenying](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenying/pseuds/fenying)


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